


she might just want my bones, you see

by futureboy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Car Chases, F/M, Slushies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: Lindsay smiles. He instantly regrets everything.[or, Matt Bragg is lovestruck and has terrible ideas, but it's okay, because Lindsay's ideas are horrendous as well.]





	she might just want my bones, you see

**Author's Note:**

> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]
> 
> Title from ‘Flathead’ by The Fratellis. (Most of you are probably a little young to remember [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKxGfLo7Cqo), although they do seem to be making a comeback. My favourite ad campaign ever.)

Some jobs require finesse, and logic, and an all around straightforwardness that Matt Bragg refuses to be contained by. The Vagabond can respect the devil in the details of a great plan, and Geoff Ramsey has been known to develop some fucking complicated schemes, too. Golden Boy Gavin is expected by the public to fuck things up, but they’re usually surprised by his competency, which he likes to keep under wraps until actually required. The whole main crew are quite good at playing specific roles they’ve been given.

But Matt’s too creative. Too sneaky and snake-y, too liable to think outside of the box and put the team _inside_ one of their own. Nobody wants to be six feet deep when they could’ve just followed an itinerary, so sometimes, Matt gets to stay behind and watch.

Which means that the Fakes often leave Lindsay behind, too.

“I know it’s nothing personal,” she says, undoing the stitching of the arm of the couch with a butter knife.

“What?” says Matt incredulously, “of course it’s personal! We get advised to sit out because of our _personalities_ , Linds. If we made everything fuck itself every time we had a big job, the LSPD would catch on and start predicting our plans. Gotta have some solid ones _sometimes_.”

“Still bored as fuck,” she mumbles. _Crack_. Dust pings off the fibres of the stitches as they snap.

And Matt, in his infinite wisdom, says:

“Let’s do something, then.”

Lindsay smiles. He instantly regrets everything.

It’s how he finds himself shrieking and whooping out the passenger window of a Coil Rocket Voltic, which used to be worth around four million dollars until Lindsay briefly crashed into traffic barrier. The fresh ‘detailing’ makes it worth significantly less.

“Go, go, go!” he yells, his voice breaking. The sirens in the distance phase in and out, in and out, all thrilling blues and adrenal scarlets. Lindsay steps on the gas. Three or four orange cones go tumbling over the bonnet with a series of plastic thuds.

Matt takes a second to stare at her. Her hair winds through the breeze like spilled ink in double time, spreading in tendrils, as though she’s integrating herself into Los Santos itself.

“What do you wanna do now?” she asks, casual as can be if it weren’t for the fact she’s shouting.

The sirens creep closer. There’s distant flashing in the rearview mirror. “Don’t know,” Matt yells back, “do you have anything in mind?”

“A Slurpee sounds good,” she says.

He watches with rapt horror as she absently texts with her right hand, tosses her cell into the footwell, and then jabs the button for the booster.

_Whooooooooooooosh--!!_

They go hurtling down the freeway. The g-force pins him in the passenger seat and forces a half-horrified, half-hysterical yell out of his chest, and it feels a little bit like being in love.

She’s got so much energy, he thinks, as they rush through paying with a hundred and leave without the change. She’s like a rollercoaster came to life. All slow deception and frightening, addictive anticipation before the fall. She’s like a tambourine that won’t stop bouncing, undoubtedly announcing some pounding sound.

Goddamn, he’s fucked, he thinks, and fixes adoringly on the blue smear lining the inside of her lips.

The music’s too loud. They’re sat in the second ‘O’ of the Vinewood sign. Not facing the city, though - they’ve put their backs to the little world below, simply perching in the centre of the letter because they _can_. Lindsay’s blaring something fast, a-hundred-and-forty beats-per-minute, just like his heart rate, and swinging her legs to it, bumping her head from side to side like a little kid in class. Every kick against the metal makes it reverberate slightly.

She’s real into it. And Matt’s real into her.

“How do you think the others are doing?”

“They’re probably fucking _pissed_ that we drew so much attention away from them,” Matt wheezes. “It was awesome.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lindsay beams. “Their fault, though. Trevor never lets me push the boost button. It was only a matter of time.”

“We got a lot of it,” Matt says. He opens up his phone. It’s only five-thirty. “The crew won’t be back for ages. Got anything else on your to-do list?”

“Hangin’ out,” she beams.

“Sure, we can do that.”

There’s several beats and bars between them for a minute, simply enjoying a ridiculously quick bassline and each other’s company.

“Can I make purple?” she eventually says, pointing at his slushie.

“Sure.”

Her own is placed between her knees. He offers up the cup, pointing the straw vaguely at her face, so she can lean down and take a sip. After all, Lindsay paid for it.

She smacks it away with a huge splash. The lid pops off. Neon blue puddles momentarily in mid air.

“Wha--?” Matt gets out, before she grabs him with Slurpee-chilled hands, and kisses a smile into his mouth. He manages another startled “ _mmph!_ ” as a warning, and promptly flails, trying to keep his balance on the thin platform; Lindsay paws at his arms until he’s stable again, and places them on her knees.

She’s an ironically steady platform, and Matt kisses her right back.

“God,” he says between breaths, and, “what-- what’s happening?” and, “ _Linds_ , fuck--”

“Matt,” she says calmly. She’s punctuated by cymbals and flattened strings. “I think we could do everything together. Y’know?”

“ _Here_?!” he asks, slightly shrill.

She snorts. “No, dummy, like… We just work. We’re not cut off or left behind, we’re whole on our own and we fuck shit up however we like. And I like it. And I like _you_.”

Matt sits back.

With a wordless, slightly spiteful motion, he snatches Lindsay’s drink from between her knees. Taking a gurgling strawful of it, he looks her dead in the eyes as he does so, and tosses the remainder through the hoop of the ‘O’.

Then he gently folds his glasses, and tucks them into the neck of his hoodie.

“You realise this is probably the one thing we won’t screw up?” he laughs, still feeling a little hysterical and a lot shaky.

“Yup,” she beams.

He brushes hair out of her face. She’s so exciting and slightly mad, and it’s the best thing that ever happened to him.

“Don’t worry,” she adds. “We won’t screw it up. I know that.”

She sounds so sure, and she’s never usually like that, so it’s disproportionately funny to Matt that this might be the one plan he follows to a T.

“ _Linds_.” 

“Shut up and come up with something cool to do next,” she grins, and he kisses her with an open mouth and a wayward, dangerously gleeful heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> My writing blog can be found [here](http://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Kudoses, comments, and subscriptions are appreciated! ♥


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